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THE MIRACLE SONGS 
OF JESUS 



BY WILSON MacDONALD 

/ 






Copyright 1921 

By Wilson MacDonald 

Published November, 1921 

All rights reserved 



DEC 15 192! 



1* 



©GU1HU255 V 



FOREWORD 

TV/TR. WILSON MacDONALD is 
already well-known to students 
of Canadian verse through his volume 
The Song of the Prairie Land, pub- 
lished in 1918, and also through 
various poems which have appeared 
from time to time in magazines in 
Canada and abroad. The poem, 
The Miracle Songs of Jesus, hitherto 
unpublished, shows Mr. MacDonald's 
distinguished gift in a new form, and 
will be welcomed as an important 
contribution to religious verse. 



THE MIRACLE SONGS OF JESUS 

JESUS, the poet of Galilee, 
Fashioned the light in His lyric hands, 
And held it up for all men to see: 
The Publican and the Pharisee, 
The merchant rich and the robber bands 
On the outcast fringe of Galilee. 
But all of the wise men sneered at Him; 
And the gay young fellows jeered at Him; 
And only a fisherman fool or two 
Looked up at the Light with its liquid hue 
And drank its beauty of red and blue. 

Jesus, the poet of Galilee, 

Sang that the weary might be free; 

Sang of the lilies — how their glory 

Shamed the best at a king's command ; 

Sang His truths in a lyric story 

Even the poor could understand. 

And the wise men heard and they tried to scan 

The rhymes of the poet Son-of-Man. 

But, every time that He sang, they found 

Some cherished rule of their pedant school 

Was killed in his poem's strange, new sound. 

And Jesus, the poet, grew sick at heart 
And fled from the halls where learning kills ; 



And took His verse from the fear of art 
To the bold delight of the rain- washed hills. 
And the songs He sang to the desert sea 
Were far too sweet for the ears of men ; 
But the gray-white dunes of Galilee 
Have blown with a fairer flower since then. 

A learned group of dons will gloat 

At a fool's last word in a high priest's throat. 

But the song of God in a Carpenter's saw 

Could never hold wise men in awe. 

And whenever Christ, the bard, would sing 

They lost His truth in a hammer's ring. 

The wilderness called with her silent lure: 
"O poet of thoughtless Nazareth 
Come out to me with your starry breath." 
And His white reed yearned for the moon-chilled 

sands 
Where the frayed flowers cure 
With their gypsy hands. 
But He turned His face 
From the silent place, 
With the comrade stars above, 
As we all have done, 
As we all have done 
From a maid we dare not love. 

And the silent desert called again: 
"O poet of thoughtless Nazareth, 



Come out to me with your fragrant breath, 
And walk with me in the moon's white rain. 1 
But a blind man's stick on a hollow stone, 
As it slowly tapped through a distant city, 
And a broken woman's hopeless moan 
Called out to Him with a deeper tone ; 
And the heart of the Lord was pity. 



And back to the town the poet came, 

And took His feet to the temple's hall, 

And heard the boast of a man named Saul ; 

And He heard Saul mock, 

In a fiery tongue, 

The sweetest songs which His heart had sung. 

But Jesus of Nazareth, then and there, 

Could scarce forbear 

From a fond embrace, 

Knowing the beauty the man should wear 

At another time, in another place. 

The critics were many in Jesus' day; 

And His songs were scorned by the caustic pen. 

He did not write in the Grecian way; 

And He knew not how to preach or pray 

In a way approved of men. 

His themes were bad by the Roman chart, 

And His metres all were wrong ; 

For all of the High Priests had their art, 

And He had only His song. 



Now few ol the people cared to hear 

The Poet blow on His starry reeds ; 

So He took His gift from the soul's high sphere— 

The miracle song that few would hear— 

And lowered His power, 

In a hopeless hour, 

And made men cower 

At His miracle deeds. 

A miracle deed is a simple thing 
To a miracle song or a miracle truth. 
Yet they marvelled not that a song could bring 
To the veins of Time the world's lost youth. 
And two were gathered and sometimes three 
To hear the poet of Galilee. 
But the mob swept down like leaves in a storm 
When they heard the miracle man would 
perform. 

And the lame men walked and the blind men 

saw; 
And the dead men breathed by a strange, new 

law. 
But they were few to the far-flung throng 
Who saw and breathed through the poet's song. 
When they sat and fed on the fish and bread 
Five thousand men was an easy count ; 
And the deed was done ; 
But to-morrow's sun 

Will still bring throngs to the Pulpit-Mount. 
10 



And I am sure that John or Mary 

Cared not a whit when He walked the sea. 

But I am sure that they loved to tarry 

And hear the Poet of Galilee. 

And of the throng that around Him pressed 

'Twas John and Mary that He loved best. 

And when the Poet sat down, to choose 
The men to take to the world His news, 
He sought no men who had held their dishes 
To catch His gift of the loaves and fishes. 
But He chose them out of the purer throngs 
Who came to hear His miracle songs. 

And when at last He went up a Hill, 
To seal His songs with the seal of Death, 
Whose were the hands that were raised to kill 
This brave young poet of Nazareth? 
The man who thrust at His side I find 
Was a man who saw Him heal the blind. 
And the men who fed on the fish and bread 
Were cheering the deed in the ranks behind. 
But in a group which had drawn apart, 
To pour their tears for His broken heart, 
Were the ones who heard 
His miracle word. 

If all of the miracle deeds of Christ 
Had proven birth in a womb of lies 



My spirit would still with Him keep tryst 
With faith as deep as the sun- washed skies. 
But why should I doubt so simple a thing 
As a miracle deed from a man who could sing 
A miracle song that sheds its power 
In a pure, white light to the world's last hour. 

The temple bells ring out to-day 
And the Pharisees pray 
In their ancient way. 

And the lips of the preachers love to tarry 
On the virgin birth and the miracle deed ; 
But the temple bells I shall not heed ; 
For I am going with John and Mary 
Out on the hills with the slender throngs 
Who love to hear the Miracle Songs. 



12 



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